The Black Argonian
by Interfuge
Summary: Across the lands of Tamriel, the actions of several men and women all account up to the Events found in the Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. Book One of Three.
1. Chapter 1

~I am a Desert-Walker

Drifting in the sand...

A diamond in the rough...

This wasteland's not enough~

{Chapter I}

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He walked in tattered robes of brown and beige, like camouflage among the infinity of dunes.

A quick close-up scanned to his feline eyes. He was in search of something. His disposition and outlook on the world was weary and fraught with contempt. But a cold, hardened hope flared from within them, his eyes... Not once was he undetermined to be free.

He walked within the dunes, a baby blue sky above him. Glittery streaks of planes of Oblivion shone through the daylight, matching the color of the tangy, intense sun. Like a dreamscape, nothing is in sight except the figure walking towards a destination. Then, the character's back is revealed, as is a cave.

The figure made a noise, "Hmgrh."

A shimmering light reflecting from somewhere in the cave. Diamonds.

The khajiit strutted towards the cave. He had been searching for it for months, but something had just incited it right then and there. Obviously a trap.

But the bait was far more than bait, and it was well worth whatever trap this may be.

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~Significance of Sigils~

Etienne paced around in the building. Sigils, it was about. How they had worked.

"Rather like enchanted items, but with a certain effect of magicka to broadcast a spell effect of connection, As a remote signal."

He was pondering these things. Rembrandt would have known, if he were here. He had told him of the secret stones.

The Magick stones.

This was all that could be found on them: "A Sigil Stone is a pre-Mythic quasi-crystalline morpholith that has been transformed into an extra-dimensional artifact through the arcane inscription of a daedric sigil, which can be used to create portals from Nirn to Oblivion."

Rembrandt had told him more: "Dagon and the mechanic of the stone simultaneously incite the conjurational charter, which will transport the Stone through the liminal barrier and create a temporary portal. If this were true, The portal would only remain open for a brief period of time. We would never know this as the Champion of Cyrodil and other heroes had destroyed most gates. But I think the power of a Sigil Stone is similar to that of a filled soul gem, but far more in magickal magnitude."

And in remembering this statement, He had tilted up this head and looked at a collected Transcendent stone. The last known transcendent stone.

He looked at the doom shards of a crumbled runestone, all crumbled up in a rocky, novice-level calcinator.

The thought had been incepted.

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~The Deranged Vampire~

He had been pacing in the murk. Monthly expectations.

The government of Argonia had sent them monthly reminders of whom they work for. To be on the safe side, they had made this particular "check up" a league of deadly assassins in which the consigned must defeat. This was a protective measure from any shadowscale who might be contemplating defection, and a great physical/mental exercise in that failure meant death.

Unlike all the rigorous training exercises, this one was most similar to in mission in that, if you fail, you die.

It was also a test of loyalty. To trust the fair government of Argonia even when they send cold-blooded killers your way to test you.

This shadowscale was among the others. What had separated him from the others was his determination for justice (rather than thirst for blood), his wit (rather than his obstinate obedience), and, of course, his complexion.

He had black scales. He had been born under the Shadow. He had been a label.

And that label?

"The best at what I do"

The Vampires had faced him. Most were Bosmer, some were Argonian. He spotted maybe five Dunmer, but not many.

A Breton stood forth, "My Name is Gaston LaChance. We are the famous Shadowblades."

"So it was true. You really are walking dead."

Gaston hissed, "We do not appreciate the common-fold jests. They are rather irrelevant."

Five faces of Bosmer fell to the ground and inhaled Black Marsh miasma in their last breaths.

Scale had spoken with a cold, dry, reptilian voice, "That wasn't a vampire jest."

LaChance turned around in fear as he noticed the blackness he had been staring at was not the Argonian. He noticed everyone else was gone. He had been isolated. Swing at the cypress tress in anger. Argonian was in trees. Argonian was in trees. Watch for black wolf-bats. Watch for black lizard-man. Trees may harm you. Argonian in trees. Run from trees.

After swinging violently in the midst of all his colleagues, Gaston ran from a section of wood into a swampy clearing. Sinking into the black mush of the clearing and not coming out, he wailed in fear until he had sunk under completely and suffocated.

The Black Argonian had stood with aloof composure drifted on his face. One Bosmer cowered and tripped over a cypress knee.

"Would anyone else like a taste of my Hist?" The Argonian had held up a vial in his left hand, and suddenly, the congregation noticed that the gleam of silver in the moonlight had broken through their vampiric brethren's backs.

"No? Good. Because I have a game for us to play. A nice and fair game. It's called 'Hide and Seek'." The Shadowblades attentively listened. "Any one of you may form any alliance or team that you wish. I am 'it'. My goal is to eliminate you all, one by one. Do not think I am unable to. Remember that I do this every month."

This seemed, at first, absurd to the gladiators. Just hide around, forfeit the large sum pledged by Argonia? Damn, no. They needed a new source of income to attract more vampires to their faction. They had political goals, aspirations of becoming a name down in history. By Sithis, they were even thinking of establishing a chartered colony for vampires, just as the Orcs had Orsinium created.

But they couldn't match up to him. Hiding and running gave them a chance for survival. This is where the stubborn and the prudent had separated.

A number of around eight vampires had rushed towards the Argonian, proving imprudent.

They were powerful, strong, fast, agile, and emotional.

He was powerful, strong, fast, agile, and cunning.

A Dunmer led the charge. Typical of them to be taken in the rage of fear. His ashen skin stretched around his tendons and ligaments as he sprinted.

The Argonian thought back to his statement "every month." It was alien of him to say this, but he had needed to for the group to comprehend him. Argonians do not have a sense of time, hence his statement that they are walking dead. Everything is in one moment, there is no linear equation or sequence of events. Only the event and a sequence. It was a beastly outlook, but it provided a tactical perception in battle.

The Dunmer sprinted forth and on his fourth step, with his right leg, he propelled himself in the air and rotated 360º, unsheathing his sword within the rotation. Before he had reached the ground and launched his attack, he stumbled in mid-spin and fell into a patch of cypress knees. As his back uncomfortably shifted through points of support through the knees, he bent his head and saw a perfect stripe of red run diagonally across his lower-to-upper torso. He bent his head to his left to find the reptilian bastard grappling the shoulder of his cohort and jabbing him in the neck with the silver dagger.

The dagger must have been enchanted with a fire effect, because his torso began to burn with an intense pain. Clutching his stripe, he looked towards his party. The others had not moved a flinch. They were simply staring as his men were dying. He looked to the muck where Gaston had last been seen, hoping on the chance that LaChance would suddenly emerge out of it and slay the lizard bastard. No such luck.

He looked back towards the Argonian. Apparently, he had outlived the others. He knew he had always been a leader. The pain flared and he winced in pain. Only he could last so long.

The Argonian began to walk towards him as he glared. The stripe of red had become a deep puddle of blood resting in his abdomen.

"Ah, yes, a Dunmer. Of course you'd last the longest," The Argonian bent down to the dark elf, "I have a deal for you. I will let you live, if the Hist decide it so."

The vampire spat blood on the roots he had rolled off earlier. In a raspy voice, he inquired, "How do you mean?"

"The swamp shall decide whether or not you die. I have done enough to kill you, now, you must do more than enough to stay alive. Because if you manage to survive out here with your curse, you deserve it."

The Dunmer felt a shimmer of internal relief. On the outside, he looked spiteful, "You mean you won't kill me?"

"Ah, but I will, if you die. Because you would have died due to the very mark you bear," The Argonian looked to his injury, "But in giving you this burden, I also give you the chance of great honor."

"What would you know of honor? You defected from your post!" the Dunmer spat more blood.

Cooly, the Argonian ignored his constant spitting and replied, "Because if you survive, you have the right of claiming superiority over me."

"S-Superiority? In what manner? You left your mark on me, I should say."

"You are being narrow minded," the Argonian guided the Dunmer, "You see, if I take the measure to kill you, and you do not die, you are superior to me. You've proven superior in living to that I am in killing."

The Dunmer raised his hand and clenched his fist so that a white orb was begotten and multiple streams of bright misty streaks flowed around his person in a simple restoration spell. The last that the Argonian had seen of him was his struggling to get up and casting more spells.

He knew it would be a hard challenge. Dunmer were skilled in Destructive spells, not restoratives. But the vampire had a fair enough chance. So he had no qualms over striking him, however so ignorant the elf might have been.

As he faced the rest of the crowd, they turned their heads from their companion to the Argonian.

He then nodded his head in significance, and they had fled as fast as they could.

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~Tongue of a Salior~

The smell of amber and alcohol filled the bar. On the stools sat a woman by the name of Jean Shafaye.

"Ah, the GRAND City of Rimmen! M'aiq does like. So much more comforting than Leyawiin."

The Redguard nodded, "Yes, I've heard of Leyawiin. The only thing noble to it's name are the Knights of the White Stallion, or as I call them, The Knights of Sitting on Their Asses and Do Nothing All Day."

"M'aiq wishes these knights could find his stylish Colovian helm. M'aiq misses it dearly. Bartender, M'aiq wishes to give this lady a fishiestick."

"Does M'aiq jest? M'aiq knows that he has consumed all of the available fish-sticks in stock," The Bartender continued with a suspicious glare, "and M'aiq knows he must pay his tab at the end of the moon. M'aiq knows that the Regulators will not be friendly to him anymore should he not pay his tab."

M'aiq pursed his snout, "M'aiq must find desert pirates for fishiesticks. Perhaps Captain Erdad. M'aiq must go find this pirate immediately,"

Knowing this was a response to his tab comment, the Khajiit bartender rolled his eyes as he continued swiping the towel in the interior of the glass cup, cleaning his dish-wares.

Jean smiled, "Pirates? I'd love to find one. Especially desert pirates! Are they like caravaners?"

M'aiq frowned in sympathy, "M'aiq wishes to adventure alone. Others just get in the way. And they talk, talk, talk."

And with that, he quickly paced out the room.

Jean looked over to Sea-Tongue with a look of dismay on her face.

"Of course. First damned taste we get of skooma trade traces, we lose. Damn it all. Jean, why are we even in Elsweyr? It's just a giant barren desert ruled by some foolish, racial theocracy. And speaking of race, I don't feel very welcome here."

As Sea-Tongue finished the last sentence, Jean observed the feline eyes from around the cantina that had either been fixed or wandering to Sea-Tongue.

Sea-Tongue was, as all Argonians were, named at birth quite appropriately. His first words were ones his parents would rather not recall, and he had wanted to spend more time in the water than any of his peers. His father had wanted him to be a sailor, and his mother had wished he would follow his dreams. Obviously, he dreams were to be a sailor.

His father had been very pleased when he discovered his son had been picked on by three older, stronger Argonians in his youth. They had been calling him names, and Sea-Tongue had bested them in insults. They had become angry and began to get physical with him. He had been punched into a deep pond and the adolescents had dived in to teach him a lesson. Before they could come to their senses, he had out-maneuvered them and, well, kicked their sorry asses. Water was his sanctuary. Nothing could best him there.

Jean began forming the image of Sea-Tongue being away from the water too long. It didn't look good.

Jean had been an orphan since age fourteen. Her mother had been raped and slaughtered after her father had been killed by a gang of Orcish highwaymen. She had been adopted by a kind Breton sailor by the name of Jean Baptiste. Over the course of her seaside adventures, she had become the spitting image of Jean. Well, not in appearance, but in personality and determination. The crewmates and Jean himself had begun to call her "'Lil Jean," and the name stuck. She had become so accustomed to the name that she had nearly forgotten her original name.

They had met a few years ago on the wharfs of Anvil at high noon. Cpt. Jean's ship had docked adjacent to Sea-Tongue's. As her father's crew was going to stay the night in The Fo'c's'le, she had some time to kill. Always the adventurer, she had decided to walk up the docks and head for the city gates of Anvil. She saw that Sea-Tongue was getting into a predicament with another Argonian, who had claimed he stole his satchel.

"I'm telling you, dammit, I don't have your satchel. Maybe you should retrace your footwork, fellow _Saxhleel_."

"Or _maybe_ you stole it and lied to cover up your act. Perhaps I won't find it, and you'll be on your merry way through the sea. Hist damn me for being such a fool."

"What is so special about this bag, anyway?"

"You would know, thief. My silver calip-"

"Greetings, sir, but I couldn't help but overhear your argument with my friend here," Jean offered, shooting a wink at Sea-Tongue. Sea-Tongue understood immediately. (Sailors have a bond to the sea which connects them, so unless they first meet on bad terms, they're naturally inclined to help each other.)

This Argonian had lived in Anvil all his life, so he knew how sailors were.

"But you two came from different ships. Earlier, I saw that you two came from separate ships."

Sea-Tongue was very dismayed, and he suddenly resented himself for calling this Imperial trash a _Saxhleel_. He had sworn to the Hist, but he was born and raised here in Cyrodil. It was obvious: he spoke Imperial perfectly, he didn't trust sailors, and he uses that perturbing concept '_Earlier_'.

"Yes, but we are a convoy. One crew on two ships, you see. That's why we arrive at the same time and park in the same place."

The Imperial lizard was pestered by this stroke of evidence, but kept listening as Jean went on.

"You see, my companion here is Tastes-Like-Saltwater. He is very trustworthy, and no one on our ships has ever heard of this goody-two shoes snatch anything. In fact, we entrust him with our wares and fares when the treasurer of the crew is sick. He manages the ropes, but, he's damned good with counting our money."

The Imperial Argonian had reluctantly accepted the Redguard's account and went back to seraching for his satchel—but not before warning Sea-Tongue about stealing his things. So, the two sailors had spent the day together traversing around the town and had become the best of friends ever since.

"Well, why did you stick around here in the first place, Sea?"

"There was something familiar about that cat we were conversing with. It took my attention off all the staring eyes."

"What, you mean M'aiq?"

"Yes. I saw him that day we met when we went to the northern gates of Anvil. Same clothes, same everything."

Jean tried hard to remember, and she usually was successful, but this time, her brain had fallen short.

"I don't remember."

"I do. He had an open satchel by his feet and he was toying around with a fancy pair of calipers."

"'Silver calip-'"

"My point exactly."

At that moment, the two companions had unsuccessfully stifled their laughter.

~Summary~

And for the moment, all was normal for our heroes.

[A.N.:]  
>(Thanks for reading this chapter. If you like it, please review. If you don't, please toss me some constructive criticism.)<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

~I perceive things I can see,

I can deceive if

I receive an opportunity,

Doubtful, I believe~

{Chapter II}

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The cave had been surprisingly cool to him. Perhaps it was time that separated him from the brisk, sustaining feeling of walking through a _lacuna_. The appeasing sentiment of asylum was fabricated, constructed by a god of no predictions, a god of rotten minds. In comprehending this, he felt lost in an ambivalence of discretion and serenity.

The days before he had wandered into the deserts. Had they been many or few, he had not known. He only knows "now."

Now, he was lost in a pointless place without reason. Never any reason.

But the destination was very close. Similar to that in seeing an oasis in the distance, he had seen this cave. The shimmering of the reflected light beaming from the diamonds reminded him that of the gleaming of the light from the source of water. The source of life, hope, and happiness. A thought evokes into his mind, from when this had all started.

"_Why, diamonds, of course! Beautiful things. Things of beauty! Yes, diamonds, because they are really a sight to the eyes, don't'cha think? Then again, all things are sight to the eyes. Except the unseen. Remember that there are things unseen, mind you."_

"_I don't understand! Why am I trapped here, why am I doing this?"_

_The man had seemed to become pestered with the remarks, but his face faded back into its general_

_form of inane satisfaction, "There is no point in asking pointless questions which pertain to things which have no point. Unless, of course, it is a sword fight! I just love those! All those points!"_

"_You make no _sense_!"_

"_Well, then it is quite sensical that I make no sense. Isn't it, being who I am? Therefore, I shall be nonsensical as I am supposed to be—by making sense! Find the diamonds, they will be in caves. Learn the name of the place you are in, and learn the way of the Desert Walker. Only then may you see Tamriel again...and pass down your new talents!"_

So, into the cave he walked, and upon the sight of the beautiful, shimmering jewels, the khajiit sighed in relief. Soon after, he quickly turned his head to the direction of the small rocks clattering to the floor. A band of red orcs had been lounging in the crevice hidden in the time.

"We reckon this must be one of the last , right? To escape?"

The khajiit stared at them with eyes of silent fire, "That would be...correct."

"Well, this is an unlucky day for you. Lord Sh' sent our asses down here to guard them. I figured he'd want to challenge you, but I didn't think he 'd want you dead. At least until he put us in his service."

"You believe to be great fighters?" The fire hadn't calmed; his voice had became more incisive.

"We are the greatest fighters in the world."

Their arrogance had proven a slip of _hubris_. The Desert Walker had begun playing the sides.

"Oh, goodness me," The fire had seemed to die, replaced with a projected sense of fearfulness, "I could not fight if my life depended on it!"

The orcs had shook their heads to one another and laughed.

_They believe to be the best in the realm, and they look towards one another for approval._

As they had laughed, he noticed their garbs and weapons. Each had a war-axe mounted on his back, some had daggers bound to the waist, others had satchels of assorted items connected to their belts. Their burly red masses had struck through pieces of assorted leather armor parts. The leather was sturdy and tough, and all of it bore shades of burnished colors which had complimented their skin tone.

"I am Bogakh gro-Shazog," the leader had a bent black stripe tattoo run down from the side of his left eye to his cheek, "and I will eat you for dinner."

As Bogakh boasted, the Khajiit ran straight towards him, leaped to a kick in his abdomen, and propelled himself into the air. In the downwind, he violently swiped his arm and lacerated the face of the Orc. His claws still penetrated Bogakh's face as he landed, so he simultaneously turned and pulled the leader down with his head. As this happened, he flexed his arm; pulled his claws out, swiping his hand so that his palm faced the barbarian; and thrust Bogakh by his sliced head across a few paces. All in one fluid motion.

Gro-Shazog stumbled back in the propulsion, collapsed into a cave pit, and plunged to his death.

The other orcs dismounted their weapons and charged towards the khajiit.

_Charging, charging, charging. When will I meet one that does not charge?_

One came from the left of the khajiit as a female had arrived at somewhere along his frontal right. He turned to the male who had placed the axe in a position for a long, hard swing. _Wait. Wait. Wait._

He had stayed in the same position, arms folded and feet together in an erect stance, until the moment had come. Right when the axe was launched, he tossed his thigh to the orc's direction and swung his lower leg to aim right at the orc into a kick. He pushed his leg out as the orc came charging right into him, not noticing the leg until the last second. The wind had been knocked out the charger, and he dropped his weapon and crumpled his stance in response. As the orc faced the ground, The Desert Walker had shifted his upper body to the left to successfully avoid the impending axe from behind. Following the flow and momentum of the shift, the khajiit drew his outward leg (the one that had kicked the orc) to a crescent swipe and face the other opponent as her axe had been extended.

She was bewildered. The khajiit moved with astonishing speed and perception. He had evaded to her left and faced her, then proceeded to pounce her as she brought back her weapon to her stance.

He performed a viciously low pounce into her, legs bent and back nearly upright. As he had drove towards her, he executed a piercing strike into her solar plexus as well. Only this time, it was with his claws rather than his foot. Her diaphragm had been punctured and her breathing disrupted, sending her into a state of respiratory shock while a stream of blood cascaded down her torso.

After extracting his fingers from her person, he had immediately stroke towards the male orc behind him who was close to catching his breath. Three red lines had formed on his head, diagonally from his left ear across his left scalp. He had clutched the cuts in pain as his other hand clutched his diaphragm for breath. The other orcs were still charging towards him regardless.

~ The Boy and His Letter ~

Daenlin was sitting at the desk in his room, looking out the window. His home in Cheydinhal was quite pleasant, and he was always very content with his life. He never stole out of greed, it was the adrenaline rush he stole for. Should his father find out, he would be whipped 'till his ass sore, but he knew it was worth the risk. Everything was worth the risk, the risk alone was worth the consequence. The combination of finesse and, well, pure chance, just _excited_ him.

He had never speculated a such a bittersweet consequence before.

The letter sat on his desk as he had looked outside the window. Earlier in the day, it had been delivered to him in the Newlands Lodge by Dervera Romalen, the bartender (like her grandmother before her). While Daenlin's father didn't mind his presence there, his mother would scold him on occasion if she saw him around the premises.

To say that there was nothing between Daenlin and Dervera was to be in denial. Although Dervera was a dark elf and Daenlin a wood elf, they had become acquainted quite swimmingly. While Daenlin appreciated the liberties the bar provided (ale, food, laughs, fights, and the occasional drunken pocket), he usually went there to flirt around with Dervera.

Daenlin never connected himself to the Bosmeri stereotypes. He was rather tall for one; he had the physical structure of a Dunmer, Imperial, and Bosmer; he moved like a Dunmer; he spent most his time with Dunmer, and was considered a Dunmer among them; and he was quite frisky with the women (namely, Dunmer, and especially Dervera).

However, there remained a few Bosmeri traits with which Daenlin shared. He was proficient in archery; he was quite convincing to animals (and humans, for that matter); he had the agility, wit, and curiosity of a Bosmer; and he held fast to (most) morals.

So it was Dervera who had passed him the note. Everything about it told him it was the Guild. He had never understood how he had attained the attention of it, especially since he had never been caught. It was his dream to join it, but he would have to leave home and forfeit his future in his lovely hometown. He would miss his mother, father, the bar boys, and Dervera.

But he would have to accept the invitation now. The Guild does not respect freelance thieves, and they'll never send him another invite if he doesn't accept this one. But it was too early! He was still a minor, and he would have probably been the first minor to gain acceptance into the guild. Perhaps they had wanted to use him as some sort of bait or precaution. Perhaps it was a practical joke, courtesy of Dervera. All these the possibilities, from just one letter...

"I suppose I'll never know if I don't read it."

He guided his head from the window looking into the West Cheydinhal common area to the note on his desk.

"_I can offer you great rewards. If you are interested, come to the Garden of Dareloth in the Imperial City's Waterfront district at midnight. Present this note and all shall be made clear._

_The Gray Fox_"

His heart had skipped a beat. This was not in Dervera's hand, and it was not written hastily, even though the syntax implies as though it were urgent. This nature within the essence of the letter, the reading between the lines, had been what left Daenlin both terrified and exalted.

But how would he get to the Waterfront? It was miles away. His father had never left Cheydinhal, and he was too young to travel alone. This problem had enveloped him all day until he decided to go outside for a stroll to clear his mind.

Walking over to the Mages Guildhall, a Dunmer mage of the local faction started waving his fist at the boy: "Oooh, I knew it was you! You rotten Bosmer thief! Don't think of coming back for more! You have no idea how dangerous those stones may be! By Azura, Rembrandt have my sorry arse! All because of you, you footpad!"

Oddly enough, Daenlin hadn't stolen from the Mages guildhall recently, so he had no idea what the irate mage was talking about. He simply put his arms up and gave an innocent shrug.

The understanding mage nodded his head and turned back to the hall to go looking for his things. Daenlin, even while being a thief, was universally known around Cheydinhal to be among the most honest of boys. If he had stolen whatever the mage was ranting about, he would have smirked and delivered the goods to the mage right then and there.

Daenlin wondered who else could have stolen the objects, so he went back to the Newlands Lodge to investigate among his adolescent peers.

He opened and shut the door, greeted by the voice of several Dunmer men raising their ales and Dunmer boys raising their ciders, "Daenlin!"

He quickly and thankfully smiled, nodded, and waved to all that greeted him in the bar, then paced over to his friends' table near the section of the bar Dervera was currently working.

"Have you heard of Quedicus? They say he never came out the well behind the Mages Guildhall!"

"No, no, that's a lie. I saw him just yesterday. He was rather wet, though."

"Oh, good for him! Odd name for an Argonian, though."

Daenlin had appeared and raised the letter in his hand, not showing the seal. Dervera's eyes instantly widened and she repeatedly began shaking her head and mouthing "no!"

Drulvan became curious and asked, "What might that be, Dae?"

Daenlin quickly removed it from sight and coughed, "Nothing."

Drulvan noticed Dervera's gesticulations and a sly look appeared on his face, "Oh, I think I know what that is..."

He began looking back and forth at his two peers, and Dervera picked up on his insinuation.

She began sheepishly, "Well, um, yes. It is something like that."

She quickly snatched the note and mouthed a curse at Daenlin, who looked somewhat bewildered.

As Drulvan began making impertinent jokes about the two, Daenlin and Dervera rolled their eyes and the others had laughed.

After listening closely to all his peers, Daenlin came to the conclusion that none of them had stolen the mage's things. After everyone had left, Daenlin stayed with Dervera at the bar, tossing a coin-purse in his hand. It had been stolen from Drulvan when he wasn't paying attention. Of course, he had intended to return it to his peer the following afternoon.

Of course, Drulvan would never see his money again.


End file.
